The Rose Has Thorns
by Bobadoo
Summary: Her father trained the Sarmatian Knights. Now driven south of the wall by a man's sinful desires, she has the chance to reconnect but will she grow closer to them than she expected? And what of her Roman heritage?
1. Prologue

Hello. This is my first King Arthur fanfiction. Recently stumbled upon this movie again and remembered how much I love it. While most of this is based on the movie, I do take several things from the book as well. Hope you do not become confused.

Reviews are always welcome. Critiques are longed for. As I always like to say, I only wish to improve as a writer.

I own nothing except the characters I create.

Enjoy!

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**The Rose Has Thorns**

**Prologue**

Her horse was tired, as was she, both unaccustomed to the long journey, herself never having taken one on the back of a creature for such an extended time. Her body was sore and her head continued to nod. The reins were lost a while ago. She trusted the horse to know where they were going. They had been traveling in the same direction for the past few days.

Her head fell forward further than before, face catching a feel of the horse's mane. She straightened momentarily, taking in a deep breath before plummeting again. There had been no food for well over a day, her mouth was dry, her spirit lower than she thought possible. It had given up, the remnants of her will the only things keeping her upon the saddle, though those were swiftly fading as well. She attempted to grip the hair of the animal tighter but her effort was fruitless, her hand unresponsive. The other was lost, hanging limply to the side from what she could feel.

Through the stands of matted, black hair she gazed at the ocean of green, more shades than she could have possibly imagined. She supposed it was a beautiful sight, one that many could lose themselves in but the image for her had been tainted. It was a horrid land she gazed upon, one she feared she could never escape.

The green of the rolling hills was disrupted by something foreign, manmade. Hadrian's Wall.

A smile crossed her face as her thoughts whispered praises to the unseen hand that guided her. She patted the neck of her horse, a motion she was certain it hardly noticed. Even as her grip loosened and her body began to slip, it continued the slow trek toward the wall, body lost in repetition. Perhaps it continued still without her burden upon its back. She never noticed.

The relief in her body was overwhelming; the feeling of the ground forcing itself upon her more comforting than painful. It was as though she had fallen into bed after a hard day's work. A bed, though, was the last thing she wished to think of. Never again would she desire to touch one.

It was the sky that faced her now, deep blue and endless. If she concentrated hard enough, it could be the sky back home. This time of the year many found the heat unbearable but she relished it, never one for the cold. Her brothers would call her crazy, from the safety of the stable shade of course. Always she would ignore them, a smile on her face as she stared at the vast beyond.

How long had she been gone? She tried to avoid counting the days, hoping they would blur together, the thought if time was passing faster or slower never occurring to her. Eternity was how it felt no matter how she looked at it though.

Something disturbed her sight, brought new colors to the scheme. It was a man, clad in a suit of armor, the metal reflecting the sun's rays like a pool of water. He was the legend of knights brought to life, coming to her aid as the storytellers said they would.

"Artorius?" she wondered in a whisper, awe in her voice. The man knelt by her, brows knitted with worry. His eyes widened in recognition as her hand moved to his face. "I have found you."

He spoke nothing, only continued to stare in disbelief. Her hand moved along his cheek, feeling the stubble of another beard attempting to come through. How different he had become in the years they had been apart. He appeared so much older than he ought to have been, the same disease that had struck her father and soldiers like him.

"I am safe." Almost longingly she gazed up at him, a small smile once again appearing. His eyes were such a beautiful green, a fact she had long forgotten. Her hand slipped down again, strength failed, but the smile remained.

Her body was lifted into the air. She could not feel his grip but surely it must have existed. Then again, perhaps he was a dream, a construct of her desperation and weariness. Yet she found herself moving, soon passing beneath the gate of the great wall, the detail far too clear to be a dream or vague memory of hers.

He continued in silence or she was too distant to hear anything he said. She placed her head on his chest, the cool of the armor calming her warm skin. Her hand moved to his crest, tracing each line in its intricate pattern. She realized how silly it must have all looked, her actions matching that of a drunk's, but she neither stopped nor cared. South of the wall brought safety and that was where she was.

There were hoof beats in the distance, coming closer. The form was blurry at first and dark, a nightmare coming to reclaim her. For a moment true fear held her heart until the figure spoke, pulling beside the two of them.

"Arthur, why do you open the gate? For her?" His voice was cooler, familiar, the accent striking her memory hard as she searched for a name. If only she could see his face.

"She seeks sanctuary," Arthur spoke. "I will not be the one to deny her it."

"Woads control the North," the man replied. "How can you be so certain she is not one of them?" She squinted at the man, attempting to clear her vision but coming up with nothing. How she knew his voice!

"Do you not recognize her, Lancelot?" Arthur inquired, stepping closer as he did so.

Lancelot. She looked to him again, suddenly identifying the obvious features behind the blurring of her eyes. Of all the men to forget her, it had to be him. In a brief moment of humor that she thought long gone, she thought of all the reasons why, deeming all women looked the same to him at this point the right one. She almost laughed at this but her body was too sore to comply.

There was only silence on Lancelot's part. She knew his eyes were on her, searching for something, familiarity perhaps. She could feel her body moving away from Arthur's, being lifted up onto another saddle, could feel Lancelot's strong arms grasp her.

Smiling once more, she mumbled, "Lancelot."

Now it was his turn to gawk in silence. His hand removed the hair from her face, tracing what she could tell was now a well developed bruise, the pain of it hardly registering. There was anger reflected in his gaze, its presence comforting.

"What have they done to you, Benedicta?" he asked as she slowly faded into darkness.


	2. Reasons

Hello everyone! I hope you do enjoy this first official chapter of the story. Maybe it's a bit of a run on, but I could never decide where I wanted to end it.

Thanks to Anime Princess, Queen Amy, ArcticReaper, and theladyismene for the reviews. Cookies for you!

Enjoy!

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**Chapter One: Reasons**

_12 years ago_

_The carriage slowly made its way down the poorly cut trail through the British countryside, occasionally getting stuck in some random, unseen patch of mud or a tread in the earth far too deep for its wheels. Dozens of Roman legionnaires surrounded it on horseback, ever wary of the landscape. Despite their numbers, they felt exposed. Inevitability rested on each man's shoulders._

_A red curtain covering the entrance to the carriage was pulled back momentarily. General Ramus sneered in disgust at the unchanging green countryside. They may as well have been going in circles. His hopes of seeing civilization again died more._

_Closing the curtain again, he leaned back on the uncomfortable seat, wishing for a saddle. His bones may have been old but they were still of use or he would not have been sent on this horrid mission. He began to stroke the graying beard on his face wishing for a shave, praying to climb out of the ridiculous armor he had been forced to wear again soon._

"_I ought to be enjoying the comforts and spoils of retirement," he said, eyes closed, not caring who listened in. "Instead they drag me to an ancient outpost I've never heard of…and for what? So I can train Sarmatian bastards? Our God in Heaven has a sense of humor."_

_Ramus opened his eyes to a disapproving look from his wife, Renita. She looked equally uncomfortable in the seat across from him but had chosen to remain silent about it. Unlike her husband, she knew how to keep complaints to herself. Ramus merely shrugged._

"_I do not think it funny," a young voice spoke. Both Ramus and Renita looked to the little girl standing in the middle of the carriage, her long, black hair the only thing visible as she gazed out the window at Britain. Her blue eyes scrutinized the land with a softer look than her father's but no less dissatisfied. She was not curious about the world outside Rome; she knew what she had and she liked it._

_Ramus smiled at his daughter, playing with her hair a moment without her turning around. "No, you would not, Benedicta," he paused, catching a glimpse of the outside, smile fading. "No, you would not."_

_Renita watched her husband a moment before grabbing Benedicta by the shoulders. "Come away from the window. You do not know what is out there."_

_With a sigh the little girl, an exact replica of Renita, sat down next to her father, resuming her play with the strange tassels on his uniform._

"_There is nothing out there," she whispered as though disappointed by the thought._

_Seemingly at the end of her sentence, men began to shout at the front of the caravan. Subsequently the carriage came to a halt, the driver unsheathing his sword, ready._

_Ramus stood, grabbing the helmet on the floor and replacing it upon his head. He removed his sword as well, stepping outside the relative safety of the carriage to meet whatever challenged them. Benedicta was about to follow him when Renita pulled her back._

"_No! You must stay inside." Shaking free of her mother's grasp, Benedicta moved to the window, hoping she could see something. "No, Benedicta!"_

"_But Mother, they are only horsemen." Benedicta countered as she struggled against her mother's grip once again._

_Sighing, Renita looked out the window as well. Indeed her daughter was right. Only a few men on horseback were approaching. They seemed harmless enough but she knew to never take anything at face value, especially in this country. Stores from men that had returned from their tour were enough to give her nightmares._

_Together the two watched as the horsemen stopped before the legionnaires, their stance and actions indicating they meant no harm. One Roman walked out to meet them, her father, and one man dismounted in response._

_The long missing curiosity catching up to her, Benedicta quickly removed herself from Renita's loosened grip and raced out of the carriage. Her mother's cries only fueled her as she approached the conversation._

"_It is fortunate we came for you when we did, General Ramus," a deep voice boomed thought it hardly seemed to be yelling. It had a casual tone more or less. "The Woads attacked a village not far from here. There is no doubt they would have come for you next."_

_Benedicta crawled underneath a wagon in order to get a better look. She nearly gasped when she saw the man standing before her father. He had to be a foot taller and twice the weight of him. His horse was large as well, to accommodate for his massive build. Despite all of this, her father stood as tall and proud as ever, the latter swelling in Benedicta at the sight of it._

"_What are these Woads you speak of?" Ramus asked, no falter in his voice._

"_They are the natives of this land against Roman rule. A caravan such as yours would be irresistible to them."_

_At this point Renita had found her stubborn daughter and was attempting to get her out from underneath the wagon but Benedicta, true to her nature, resisted, crawling forward and out the other side. She ran past the all but oblivious guards and headed straight for her father's side._

_The man who stood before him frowned. "You have brought your family?"_

"_Of course," Ramus replied, unsurprised by his daughter's arrival. "I have no idea how long I shall be on this island. If I cannot watch my daughter grow up in Rome, I will watch her grow up here."_

_The giant shook his head. "You should not have brought them. Families have perished here."_

_Benedicta tried not to look afraid at the man's statement but her father knew better. He wrapped his arm protectively around her._

"_That is what you are here for, is it not?" Ramus smiled but he was alone in that effort. Benedicta watched the man warily, suddenly realizing who he was._

"_You are Sarmatian?" she asked in a small voice._

_The man smiled warmly and nodded his head. She supposed he was trying to come off as kind but his attempt failed._

_A look of determination crossed Benedicta's face. She took a bold step forward and somehow continued her trek, stopping just short of the man but managing to kick his shin. The others began to laugh heartily, the man she had kicked only continuing to smile, if not wider. She bet he hardly felt the motion but it made her feel better nonetheless._

_The hands of her mother firmly grasped her arms, pulling Benedicta back behind her father._

"_It's because of you Father had to leave Rome!" Benedicta shouted as Renita tried to turn her back to the carriage. The look on the man's face changed for a moment, revealed something that ought to have remained hidden. She could never guess why it stuck with her for so long, at least not until she finally understood._

_The man had looked…sad._

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Her dreams were dark, filled with blurred being and muffled sounds. Nothing stood out to her, nothing frightened her. It would be something easily forgotten. If only the things that normally plagued her night could be the same.

The room she opened her eyes to was not much brighter; the window was within her sight but it was dark. Nighttime had fallen.

Glancing around the room, her eyes found nothing more than a simple table and chairs, and a fireplace long cold. There was no need for it now but lying in what Britain considered heat, she found herself cold, wishing for the flames to lick the stone again.

Benedicta moved her body slowly, testing it for any sign of pain or soreness. It was as she did this that she noticed; it was soft, sinking beneath her weight, warm despite the coolness of the room. Realization hit and she flung herself off the furniture, glaring at it as though some insult brought to life. What she vowed earlier was no passing thought; it was a solid thing, set in place until the torment passed. Unfortunately the years had taught her that such things could last a lifetime.

Moving to the table, she noticed a new detail: a tray of food. It possessed only a simple loaf of bread and dried meat but the offering may very well have been Heaven itself. She sat at the table and took a bite from the bread, its stale texture more than she could hope for.

There were footsteps nearby, their echoing sounds causing her to freeze. She watched the door warily, ready to spring the moment it moved, and indeed it did. Behind the table before she knew it, Benedicta watched the door open slowly, the visitor not wishing to disturb what they thought was still her restful sleep.

A curly haired man stuck his head in, confusion lighting his face when the bed was found to be empty. She recognized him from what she thought to be an earlier part of her dream. A smile crossed her face, thanking God it was not true.

"Is it I you seek," she spoke calmly, crossing her arms, "or have you opened the wrong door?"

Lancelot turned her way and smiled. It was the devil's grin he possessed, the one her mother had always warned her about. No man was up to any good as long as his face bore it. This man was no exception. In fact, it may have well been conceived with him in mind.

"It was always the right door the way I see it," he replied confidently. Benedicta shook her head, staring Lancelot down a moment longer before striding forward and embracing him. His grip was so much stronger than before, even with her faded memory. He smelled of the stable, such a sweet mixture of hay and horse, drawing a picture of the place she used to hide in.

"I have missed you so," Benedicta whispered on the verge of tears. She could feel his grasp tighten as her voice nearly cracked. He stroked her hair softly, as thought trying to determine if she were really there.

"As have I," Lancelot replied, stepping back with a deep breath. He took a good look at her, noting all of the differences, which were quite a few. When he had seen her last, she had been but a child. Now she was a grown woman, far more beautiful than he had expected. All of the jokes the men had played on her, he longed to apologize for right there and then. But it was not only the outside he took notice of. There was a hurt in her eyes, more painful to view than the exterior wounds.

Lancelot sighed, "You have changed."

Benedicta began to laugh at the simplicity of his sentence. It was no longer the giggle of youth but was mature, meaningful. There was still the glint in her eyes every time she did so. At least that had lingered.

He glanced to the table. "I see your appetite remains the same."

There was a groan from Benedicta as she pressed her forehead onto his shoulder.

"Must you make me hate you so soon?" Now it was Lancelot's turn to laugh. It was warm and merry, and deeper from what she remembered. She looked up into his eyes, searching them as she had for years. It was almost gone now, the look they held when she first met him. The years of death had faded it. She was surprised it had lasted this long.

Lancelot smiled, "You're doing it again."

"Am I?" Benedicta inquired, gaze turning to the rest of his facial features. They were older, more handsome. She had no doubt that whatever women who had resisted his rather self-assured flirtation had difficulties maintaining it now.

"It makes a man jealous of something he does not know." His hand tried to move a strand of hair from her face. When it accidentally grazed the bruise on her face, Benedicta took a step back, the pain catching her off guard. She touched the sensitive area gently, trying to get a feel of how large it was.

"It looks terrible, doesn't it?" Benedicta asked, looking to Lancelot again. He turned to the floor, thinking of an answer. The bruise covered most of her left cheek, containing multiple colors and a cut near the eye. To be honest, it was the only thing he could think of since she had arrived.

"I do not suppose you will explain it," Lancelot stated, looking back up.

"I am hardly in a position to do much of anything except getting cleaned up," Benedicta replied, looking down at her tattered dress. It was not made for riding on a horse, much less take a few day's journey on one. She did not even wish to venture a guess at the amount of knots in her hair.

Lancelot seemed disappointed but he nodded in understanding, turning away toward the door in silence. Benedicta's hand reached out ot him but was quickly replaced at her side.

"It is not your fault," she spoke softly, afraid of the curious ears that may have surrounded them. "None of it was."

She watched Lancelot pause a moment, saw him consider turning before resuming his walk to the door. Without another word he quietly slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Benedicta watched where he once stood a moment longer before sitting again, pondering if she really wished to touch the food now.

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Her bath, though lukewarm at best, was amazing. She lingered in the water longer than she ever had, waiting until the heat had all but died and her skin had become wrinkled beyond rebound it seemed. Servants had wished to help, comb her hair as she bathed or tend to her face, but she would not allow them. No one would touch her anymore.

A dress had been left for her. It was a simple, green one that appeared to be about her size. The task must have been difficult. Any dresses of hers that may have remained were far too small now. Perhaps it had belonged to her mother. Benedicta prayed to God this was not the case as she slipped the dress on.

There came a knock on the door as she attempted to free her hair from the tangles, soft, nonintrusive. She watched the door a moment before heading to it, opening it cautiously. She was greeted by another familiar face: Jols, Arthur's orderly. His smile was kind and he looked at her indifferently, though she knew what he saw.

Benedicta smiled, "Have you knocked before?"

"Only once," Jols said with a nod, extending his hand down the corridor. "Arthur wishes to speak with you in Fortress Hall."

She nodded as well. "Will he be alone?"

Jols gave her a puzzled look but quickly guessed the reason. "Yes, he will be."

Pausing to think things over, Benedicta stepped out of her room, feeling the burden of explanation begin to press down on her chest. The two carried on in silence through the large building. Benedicta tried to get a feel for the place again but it felt so unfamiliar and empty. The latter, though, was a blessing.

Jols opened a door to his left, leading Benedicta inside the chamber. She looked at Fortress Hall, feeling just as overwhelmed as the first time she saw it when she was a little girl. It was empty at the moment and seemed to echo her very breath.

"I'm sure he has just stepped out," Jols said, glancing around. "He will return soon."

"It is alright, Jols. I am hardly a pressing matter." Benedicta stepped further into the room, her gaze set on the round table in its center. It was such a fascinating thing. Her father nearly collapsed when he first saw what the young Arthur had brought in but he grew used to it over time. She could have sworn he almost liked it before the end.

"It is good to see you again, Benedicta."

She turned back to Jols. "Thank you."

He left her then, her memories the only company. Her hand moved over the smooth wood of the table, voices of Knights growing clearer in the background. She could hear them joke and laugh, their sounds echoing throughout. It made her smile as she looked at the empty chairs, trying to remember which Knight occupied each. Then she began to wonder how many remained empty. With a heavy heart, she continued to look at them until her gaze landed on the chair her father preferred.

"You should have someone look after that."

Benedicta looked up at Arthur and shook her head. "Everything heals eventually. That seems to be the creed of you and your men."

Arthur grinned momentarily, stepping out of the threshold. "I am sorry to have left you alone like that."

"Why must everyone apologize around here?" Benedicta asked, leaning against the table. "According to Jols, you must have been waiting a while. Shouldn't I ask forgiveness?"

Shaking his head, Arthur stopped before her. He had a look in his eyes; he knew something.

"Why did you wish me to be alone?" Jols. Ever faithful.

Benedicta sighed, closing her eyes. "A woman does not just approach Hadrian's Wall half dead without a story. I was not certain how Lancelot would take it." She opened her eyes again. "He has yet to let it go."

Arthur said nothing though his eyes spoke thousands of words. He glanced at the floor in some attempt to hide it but quickly realized the futility and looked up again, sighing. "Would you tell it to me?"

Now it was Benedicta's turn to be silent. Her grip on the table grew tighter at the thought of having to relive the horrid experience. It was still too fresh, too real, its returning eminent. Had it not happened just four days ago? She had nearly lost herself in thoughts of 'what if' when a hand clasped her shoulder.

"You are shaking," Arthur spoke, his voice so calm she wished to hate it. Looking at herself, Benedicta confirmed Arthur's observation. Indeed she was shaking, more than she wished. His touch made her feel frailer. A small tear escaped, making its way down her cheek.

She confessed everything.

The young girl with no family forced to the other side of the Wall where an aunt stayed. The woman's husband and his warm greeting, his curious looks that became more prevalent as time wore on. The ultimate betrayal of safety when he reached for her, touched her. Her resistance left that mark and her fear drove her back to the Wall, to the only other people on this earth she knew.

Arthur listened intently, his look hardly changing, but the air in the room had. It was darker, heavier. He was trying to control the monster inside. She had seen it once, when Roman legionnaires had abandoned a Knight to his death, and no longer wished to. There were few things more terrifying than the enemies that consistently surrounded her and yet here she stood before the brink of one.

"That is everything," Benedicta whispered after a while, unable to bear the silence any longer. Despite the feelings emanating from him, she felt judged.

Arthur, whose hand was still on her shoulder, pulled Benedicta close to him. It was the second time that day she had been embraced by a Knight, the second time she had felt everything disappear and visions of home reappeared. She could scarcely remember holding such feelings the last time she had been with them, but that was four years past; she had changed much, as had they, becoming the Knights she always envisioned coming to her rescue when the long, dark nights drew on.

"You are safe now," he spoke, voice muffled by her hair.

"But where am I to stay?" Benedicta wondered quietly. Rome had no one left for her and it was but a fading memory. "I have no home."

Arthur stepped back, appearing surprised. "As long as my Knights and I breathe, this will be your home."

Warm feelings welled up inside but she suppressed them. "And when they return home, what then?" She knew it was only a few years now, much closer than any of them could have imagined.

He was quiet a moment, thinking.

"Come with me to Rome." Benedicta stood still, unblinking, stupefied. Had she heard him correctly?

"I am certain Pelagius would be pleased to meet you. You are fascinated by his teachings, are you not?" It was the one thing he loved most, the teachings of free will. She had listened to Arthur speak of them once, intrigued but such thoughts had been banished when she left the fort, to be lost and forgotten. Besides, there were more important things on her mind at the moment.

Benedicta smiled, "Would it not be a scandal for the daughter of a General to return with the commander of the Sarmatian Knights unwed and alone?"

"Not entirely alone," Arthur replied, the rumble in his throat an attempt to cover up laughter. "and after all of these years, do you really think gossip would bother me?"

She shook her head, the smile remaining, the joy of what he proposed growing within. To see Rome again would be an unattainable dream come true.

"I mean to get your house back, reestablish your name within the city walls. Rome owes General Ramus that much." For a moment Benedicta could hear her father's voice complaining about the multiple things due him. At one point he had a list compiled out of pure boredom and frustration but in the years since he first did so, she had forgotten what it contained. What she could remember were several terrible references to the Pope, one of the few things that truly upset her mother.

Then a twinkle entered Arthur's eye, giving her a glimpse at the boy that she so rarely saw even before she left.

"Unless Caius whisks you off to Sarmatia."

Benedicta frowned suddenly, giving Arthur a slight push. "Caius, indeed." She could not help but eventually smile though. The Knight Arthur spoke of was famous for having convinced a twelve year old Benedicta that she was married to him and insisted on bringing her back to his country. Her father nearly had the man whipped for what he had done, but Arthur convinced him otherwise. It was not the happiest of memories and every time she saw the man, there was endless torment. She smiled because that was one more man alive.

"How many are left?" she asked suddenly, turning back to Arthur.

He sighed, "Eight."

"Eight?" Benedicta whispered, a brick wall having hit her. There had been thirteen when she had left.

Arthur nodded, "Lancelot, Caius, Galahad, Gawain, Tristan, Dagonet, Bors and Lionel." His eyes moved to the seat of each Knight as he spoke their names pausing after each one with a small prayer that he may continue to speak them.

Benedicta could not believe him. "Perceval?"

"He fell to the Woads when he was ambushed."

"Gareth?"

There seemed to be added pain in Arthur's eyes when she spoke his name. "A family was trapped in a burning building…we placed his sword on the hill not a week ago…there is no body."

A sick look appeared on Benedicta's face and she looked about ready to faint.

"Do not worry yourself," Arthur said in an attempt to calm her. "That is the fate that befalls all Knights."

"But not by their choice," Benedicta replied, gaining back her strength. "Is that not what Pelagius would say?"

Arthur was silent again. That may have not been what his teacher would have said but it was certainly a true point nonetheless. Something about her statement shook him to the very core. He had heard this from Sarmatians and Britons, but never her, never them.

There were many times in his life that Arthur should have been afraid but the emotion passed him by without a second thought. He did not fear for the lives of his Knights upon the field of battle. But it was now when facing the woman he had grown up with, the daughter of the men's hatred and trust, that he felt it for the first time.

He feared she would be the only Roman to ever understand.

It was another period of silence and Benedicta was growing worried. Arthur's defenses were gone, the mask removed showing her the man he hid from the world. He looked vulnerable, a state of being she never thought possible with these men.

Just as she was about to say something, Jols burst into the room.

"Arthur come quickly! They were ambushed!"


	3. Dwindling Numbers

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed and the multitudes of you who added this to your story alert/fav story or the author alerts and so on and so forth. You guys are amazing!**

Author's note: Forgot to mention this last chapter. Ramus was a character in the book for King Arthur and I really liked him so I thought I'd pay tribute to the man in this story.

Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Two: Dwindling Numbers**

_They had passed the scene of the battle, her mother holding tightly to her the entire time but that did not stop young Benedicta from seeing bits of the outside world. She saw the bodies but the blood did not register, none of the violent images hit her any harder than as men trying to sleep. One thing did strike her as curious though._

"_Father," she whispered after they were well past it, "Why are they blue? Are they demons?"_

_Renita looked frightened by the accusation of her daughter but Ramus merely laughed, playing with her hair once more. "No, Benedicta, they are not demons, only men who paint their skin blue. It is to camouflage them." At seeing the confusion on his daughter's face, he added, "To help them hide."_

_Benedicta nodded, looking toward the covered window, but quickly turned back. "But Father…nothing here is blue." He had laughed much at that, confusing the little girl who looked at her mother for an explanation, seeing that even she wore a smile in entertainment. Benedicta did not see what was so hilarious about the situation. She had posed a perfectly reasonable point in her opinion but that was all the further the subject went._

_That had been three weeks ago. Her parents had not smiled much since then, if at all. Renita was constantly fussing with the servants over how she wanted things done and when that was not occurring, she was lying in bed with all sorts of herbal remedies surrounding her, the weather having taken a quarrel with her lungs. Ramus was training the young Sarmatians. It started early in the morning and sometimes lasted well into the night. While on occasion he would admit that some of the boys were talented, they mostly annoyed him, especially the dark haired one whose wit was about as quick as his sword stroke._

_Sitting on the railing of the fence in the practice arena, Benedicta watched as her father taught the boys basic movements with various weapons. She hardly saw the point in sending her father out here to do this. Were not the other men just as capable? Even the guards to their home knew how to carry swords._

_As she sat there, movement from down below caught her eye. Benedicta looked down to see a young boy leaning on the fence, watching the Sarmatians with great interest. Perhaps if she had looked harder, she would have noticed this young boy hardly looked like the others, the features of his mother very prominent on his face but she hardly cared for such things. Assumptions were her specialty._

"_Aren't you supposed to be with them?" Benedicta asked, legs beginning to swing back and forth, barely making it to his shoulder._

_The boy shook his head. "I train separately. General Ramus says if I am to command them, they must not see my flaws, must not see me struggle."_

"_You are their commander?"_

_He nodded, "I will be one day as my father was before me." The boy looked up at her. "My name is Arthur Castus."_

_Benedicta swung her legs over the fence hopping down from it like she had done so many times before. It had only taken about two days for the young Roman girl to become tired of her surroundings. She would wander to the stables nearly every day but even the company of the horses and their cheery stable boy had its limits. Soon she found herself watching the training, completely fascinated, much to her mother's dismay but Ramus did not seem to mind. With no sons of his own and Renita's from her previous marriage long gone, he was very lenient with his daughter._

"_Benedicta Quintus," she replied with an extended hand, which Arthur took. Despite the age difference of nearly four years, they were very similar in height. It would be the last time she could ever claim that._

"_You are the General's daughter?"_

_Benedicta nodded, pride swelling once again. She turned back to the fence, leaning on it as Arthur had, watching the boys practice fighting each other. They were all so different despite having come from the same land, though she had never tried to imagine how large the country they came from actually was. She just thought that if they were from the same place, they would act the same. These boys proved her wrong. They each had different learned fighting stills, different weapon preferences, even different hair choices, such as the Sarmatian with hair whose length rivaled hers._

_She turned to look at Arthur who had joined her in watching the battles. There was a look of longing in his eyes._

"_Do you wish to join them?"_

_Arthur was silent a moment but eventually he nodded, "Your father is wise, Benedicta, but I'd like to train with them. How else are they to trust me?"_

_Benedicta contemplated this as well, feeling older than she might have been. "Talk to my father. I'm certain he'd understand."_

"_Do you really think so?"_

_She shrugged, "He cannot hurt you for it." Normally when she had pulled this with others, a certain look of despair almost grew upon their faces but not Arthur's. She had instilled some kind of confidence in him, determination. When the boys took a break for a midday meal, Arthur took his opportunity to speak to the General. Benedicta watched him as long as she could until one of the Sarmatians sat beside her on the other side of the fence, taking a quick drink from a cup that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. It was the one with the long hair and she watched him wide-eyed until she gained the courage to speak._

"_Why do you not cut your hair?" Benedicta asked meekly, almost cowering behind the fence. She had heard these Sarmatians were savages, snapping at anything like a cornered wolf._

_The Sarmatian was quiet for a while and she began to wonder if he had heard her. _

"_Why do you not cut yours?"_

"_I do not want to." She replied, quieter than before._

_He smiled, "Well then there you go." The Sarmatian said nothing more after that, resuming his drinking. Benedicta continued to watch him though, curious. He was nothing like what they said, even if she had only spoken a few words with him. He did seem distant though, unwilling and she did not like that. She had never done anything to him, why must he act this way to her?_

_Crawling between the fence posts, Benedicta took a seat next to the Sarmatian. _

"_What is your name?" she asked, sealing her fate with the Knights with her gesture of childish pride._

_The Sarmatian sighed, "I am-˝_

* * *

"Gawain," Benedicta whispered as she watched the Knights lower his bloody body from the back of his horse. One arrow stuck out from his armor but that did not mean others had not managed to penetrate. These men had tendencies of breaking them to continue the battle, making them difficult and all the more painful to take out later. From the looks of the others, if he did not have more arrows in his hide, he was fortunate indeed.

Bors had cuts and gashes on every inch of exposed skin, including the top of his head where a long, red line nearly split it in half. He hardly noticed the blood gushing down on his skin as he helped to set Gawain on his feet, that itself being a miracle if there ever was one. Caius stood nearby, not wishing to get in the way. He had yet to take a piece of cloth off his left eye. The fabric was now stained another color and started to leak. He was also favoring one of his legs, the stab wound bleeding as well.

Benedicta looked for the fourth. That was the one thing she had caught when Jols shouted after them. There were four men on this mission. The three were bloodied up to say in the least, the other should not have been hard to spot. No one could have escaped the carnage unscathed, least of all the Knights. Taking them down was hard, wounding them had seemed fairly easy, but as she looked, all the others appeared clean save for blood from the men they helped.

Then she saw it: the bloody form of Lionel draped over another horse. His hand hung limply, lifeless, the red liquid trailing around its fingers and collecting in a pool below. His sword rested on the ground nearby, having fallen from its place upon the saddle. It was stained a new color from the battle…and broken. Benedicta never thought it possible.

So distracted by the sights before her, Benedicta hardly noticed that someone had shouted for her. Despite not hearing the words, her head turned nonetheless, facing Arthur as he yelled meaningless words in her direction. He was now covered in the blood of his comrades, taking over Bors position on Gawain's left side. Lancelot, whom she had neglected to see until now, was on the right, simply watching her as she stared at the unfolding scene.

"Benedicta!" Arthur shouted once again, finally gaining her fleeting attention, "Get Dagonet! He is at the tavern!"

Before truly comprehending what Arthur had just said, Benedicta took off, her memory of the tavern's location suddenly clear and certain. Her feet turned at familiar buildings, weaving through markets and crowds of people as though she had only been there just yesterday. General Ramus had never approved of such places and was quick to ignore their existence, choosing to remain in the comfort of his quarters. Up to two years before she left, Benedicta had found herself frequenting the place, mostly out of rebellion but also out of need for companionship.

Her father had been the greatest thing in the world to her and she hardly wished to spend time away from him, resulting in a closer bond with the men he trained than the young women, however few there may have been, that lived in the fort. To get to know them so much later in life was near impossible, their sense of propriety and inward hatred at her luxurious life placing an impenetrable wall between them. So, despite the men's sinful reasons for enjoying the tavern, Benedicta joined them anyway. Their carefree nature at the building was calming in a way and the fights they often got into with Romans were strangely entertaining.

Tavern life was in full swing now. Many soldiers bustled about, staking claims over the women that worked there, placing bets over useless games that they finally had a chance of winning now that Lancelot and Caius were not lurking about. Dagonet and Tristan stood near the bar, seemingly engulfed by their silent exchange. Vanora checked on them every now and then but would not remain, too confused by the quietest of the Knights.

Benedicta was about to call out to them when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into an occupied chair. One arm remained in place, the hand moving dangerously close to her breasts. The other moved, its hand groping her thigh. For a minute, panic took over, fear coursing through her veins. She drifted back to the days in the North, when she feared one man more than the claimed enemy of Rome. He wished to touch her in this way; she had not let him but there was no controlling the images that fear manifested.

An instinct took control. With her free leg, Benedicta shoved the heel of her foot as hard as she could into the Roman's shin. Her left arm hurled itself backwards, its elbow colliding with the man's jaw, making a painful cracking noise. She doubted she could actually break the bone but it must have hurt nonetheless.

She broke free of his grip then, running to where she had last seen the Knights. Her plan, however, was flawed. The man was quick to recover and soon had her pinned against a column, turning her around so she could face him.

Benedicta, her anger finally showing itself, spat in his face. "I am not one of your tavern wenches."

"You soon will be," he replied, a cruel smile appearing. The fear returned, chasing away the instinct and anger.

There was a flash of light. Benedicta found herself staring at a sword, its edge mere inches from her face but touching the neck of the man. Now he was the one to fear as his eyes looked to the owner. Tristan was staring at him, appearance no different than if he were happy or sad, if the man was capable of such emotion. There was a distinct change in the air though. He was angry. Of that she could be certain.

"Let her go." His voice was as calm as ever but there was an edge to it, about as sharp as the blade he held. If this did not strike terror into the heart of this Roman than he was stupider than she thought. However this was not the case. He quickly backed off, watching Tristan warily as the sword moved with him.

"Thank Artorius for your life," Tristan added, nodding to someone she could not see. A large fist came from the right, striking the man squarely where she had, the force behind it knocking him out cold before his body struck the floor. Startled, Benedicta instantly bolted behind Tristan only to see that it was Dagonet who had delivered the blow. He turned now to face the other soldiers, waiting to see who would join the fight. Many watched, leaning forward as though ready to help their fallen comrade but their supposed courage all but disappeared at the sight of the large man. They returned to their activities, not in the mood for bloodshed that night.

"Why are you here?" Dagonet asked walking toward her. His voice sounded cold but he was only caught in the moment. She knew the man only had her best interests in mind. The fact that neither he nor Tristan were surprised by her presence must have meant that they had already been informed of her arrival. Then again, it seemed that nothing could truly take them by surprise.

Benedicta remembered the purpose of her visit. "The…the others have returned. They were ambushed. Gawain is gravely injured."

She had barely gotten out the other Knight's name when Dagonet took off, his long stride propelling him faster than she could have ever hoped to achieve. Tristan remained with her, not trusting the company around them. The air had changed once again though. She could tell he wished to leave.

"And the others?" he asked.

Benedicta sighed, "Bors is a bloody mess. Caius may have lost his eye."

"And Lionel?"

She shook her head, turning to the scout. Lionel had been the only one that could get a decent conversation out of the man, was the only one who seemed to understand what was going on inside. If Tristan had a close friend, in any definition of the term, it would have been him.

"They broke his body and sword."

Benedicta had not expected a big reaction but was still a bit surprised when all the scout could do was nod.

"Come," he spoke after a while, grabbing her arm gently, leading her away. They walked through the streets in silence, Tristan's eyes fixed on where Arthur's quarters would be. The two were a strange sight indeed for the people of the fort: the bruised Roman woman and the mysterious Knight. They whispered unintelligible things, gossip that kept variety in their lives and conversations. Benedicta did her best to ignore them, knowing that whatever they spoke of was not true.

In time they entered the courtyard, which had been abandoned at this point. The horses were already gone as were the Knights, the pooled blood in certain spots the only evidence that they had been there at all. Tristan left her then, walking calmly yet somehow hurriedly toward the entrance, disappearing into the darkness just past the threshold. Benedicta did not follow, at least not at first. She stood in the courtyard, observing the red scattered about it; she had seen Knights wounded before, even killed but so soon after she returned? The men she had dreamed of seeing again beaten and bloodied when she ought to have been greeting them happily. It did not seem fair.

Feeling compelled to move on, Benedicta moved toward the entryway herself, taking one last look. She turned back to see someone standing before her. She jumped a moment, surprised by their silent arrival. The Knight, Lancelot, did not react. He looked distracted, holding a sword wrapped in cloth.

"You should not go in there," he stated, looking at her, the usual gleam in his eyes missing.

"I have seen Knights wounded before."

"Have you?"

This caused Benedicta to think. When wounded Knights did come in, the people of the fort spoke, the rumors of the origins eventually making their way to her. She would often run to witness what the people spoke of though on occasion she would be in the right area when the Knights arrived; she wished to help but whenever she got close, someone would direct her away. Yes she had seen them wounded and killed, but she was never close enough, never there for longer than a few passing moments.

She shook her head, thinking of a way to change the subject. "Where are you going?"

Lancelot shrugged, "To the blacksmith. We must have his sword fixed before the funeral."

"Why?"

A serious look overtook his face. "To place a broken sword upon Lionel's grave would be to curse him."

He left then, departing for the blacksmith's. Benedicta watched him leave, feeling more concern. Lancelot had wanted to get out of there, she could tell. None of the Knights wished to share their emotions. Perhaps he was on the verge of it now.

Benedicta wandered down the hallway, searching for the room they had moved to. There were harsh voices near end, shouts and curses. It was almost hard to believe anything bad had happened; they would sound this way normally. She moved to the doorway, standing just outside, watching the action within.

Servants were tending to Caius and Bors, dressing their wounds as best as they could. Despite the large amount of cloth covering his eye, Caius still seemed to be bleeding uncontrollably. Bors was trying his best to fight off whoever came near him but would calm down every now and then after a look from Arthur. Enough had happened that day. He need not make it worse. Lionel's body was in the back covered by a heavy blanket. Tristan kept it company, perhaps inwardly performing some ritual or just giving the last moments to a man he knew so well. He would not be one to cry. Benedicta feared the day that tears flowed from his face.

The center of the room was occupied by a large table. She could not be certain what its original purpose was for. This used to be the servants' dining quarters but she doubted Arthur would let them ruin the room like this. Perhaps it had been converted into a sanatorium while she was gone. Gawain was on his back upon the table, armor stripped off. The fort's healer, Averill, and Dagonet were quietly quarreling over the next course of action, each preferring certain techniques. Listening to it for only a few moments, Benedicta could tell that Averill was being unreasonable. He was so put off by Arthur's greater trust in the Sarmatian that he refused to listen to anything the man said.

She watched Arthur sitting in the corner, expecting him to interfere on Gawain's behalf but he stayed still, lost somewhere. How terrible it must have been, losing Gareth the week before, Lionel now and perhaps another. He needed help. Maybe her arrival was not as poorly timed as she thought.

"Stop it!" Benedicta shouted, entering the room. It fell silent save for Gawain's labored breathing. "He is dying while you bicker."

Dagonet nodded toward her, understanding but Averill merely shook his head in frustration. "Then tell this pagan to let the real healer do their job."

"I only wish to remove the arrowhead," Dagonet said calmly but she could tell that he was holding back the anger.

"He would bleed out more and he's lost enough!"

"And the arrowhead continues to cut and poison whatever is left!" The two continued to fight with words for a bit before quieting down out of pointlessness.

"It seems he does not have much choice," Benedicta mumbled, watching Gawain's face. "Is he awake?"

Dagonet shook his head, "He comes and goes."

She turned to Arthur, who had risen at this point. "You Knights like to take your arrows out in battle. I doubt you would let them remain when not."

Arthur smiled, as did Dagonet though it was a sad one. The others simply nodded. Averill, however, was going to stand for none of it.

"Then you kill him!" he shouted, heading toward the door, "I'll have no blood on my hands, not even a Sarmatian's."

Benedicta nearly went after the man but Dagonet put a hand on her shoulder. "Leave him."

It took a few minutes for the healer to figure out exactly how he wished to proceed. The servants gone, Caius and Bors joined the others at the table, both looking nearly as ragged as their companion before them. The few moments that Dagonet took to make a decision seemed like a lifetime to the others. They only wished him to hurry before Gawain died as well but they kept silent about it, knowing their urgings would not make the man move any faster.

At the precise moment when Dagonet opened his mouth to speak, the remaining Knight, Galahad, chose to appear. He stopped running just inside the room, gaze going from the fallen Knight before him to the one in the back of the room before it fell on Benedicta. The corner of his lip quivered and she knew.

"Bout time you showed up," Bors snorted. "Where were you?"

"I was busy," Galahad replied, sounding defensive already.

"Busy? You're always busy. How about next time you don't show up at all when one of us dies!" Bors might have lunged forward if Caius did not have a firm hold on his arm.

"Just because I cannot be found in the tavern with some wench does not mean that-˝

"Enough!" Arthur shouted, stepping in between the two. "Your fighting will not bring back Lionel, nor will it save Gawain." The two seemed to instantly calm down at their commander's logic, each taking a sideways glance to the man unconscious before them. "Bors, Caius, you should return to your quarters and rest."

"And what of Gawain?" Caius asked, speaking for the first time that she could remember. He was close to the Knight, the only one with hair nearly the same length. However, his was pulled back and not allowed to run rampant like Gawain's. "I wish to remain and help him."

Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder, looking briefly at the bandage where his eye had once been. "You cannot do so by ending up on a table next to him. Both of you were wounded as well. Get your rest. We will tell you of Gawain later." Reluctantly the two left the room but not before Bors shot a warning glare in Galahad's direction. Clearly the dispute was not over.

Dagonet had placed them in various spots. Galahad and Tristan were to hold down Gawain's legs when he awoke and Arthur was to take the shoulders. Benedicta stood by the healer, a multitude of bandages and other small trinkets at her disposal, ready for whenever he needed them. The procedure was simple if not painful. A second arrow had snapped lowered than expected, keeping its head out of reach so Dagonet would have to make the hole in Gawain's side larger in order to grasp it. There would be much blood, as they had warned her several times but Benedicta was ready to do her part.

She tried not to look when Dagonet cut into the skin but knew when it happened as Gawain tried to bolt up, a shout of pain escaping. He struggled with them a moment, still half conscious and unaware of his surroundings. The last thing he would have remembered was the battle. Even with four Knights attempting to hold him down he managed to move well, the will to live strong in the Sarmatian.

Acting on instinct, Benedicta moved toward Arthur, leaning in close to Gawain's ear in order to comfort the man.

"You are no longer in battle, Gawain. You are with friends." She spoke loudly, guaranteeing he would hear. "Be still or we cannot help you."

For a few moments the Knight continued to thrash but soon began to calm down, drifting away. Benedicta smiled to herself and looked up to see the others' bemused and even awed looks. Even Tristan seemed abnormally impressed.

Arthur smiled. "Home indeed."

The two traded places then. Benedicta kneeled by Gawain's head, keeping an arm wrapped protectively around him, whispering comforts into his ear as the procedure went on. Arthur was always ready to hold him down again but that was never the case. He was calm now, almost at peace, a thing even Benedicta found strange.

* * *

This was one of those chapters where I just wanted to keep writing and not stop but eventually I told myself I had to. :D

I hope you review. I enjoy those emmensely. I wish to know if I have captured my Knights as well as I hope.

Have a nice day!


	4. Hatred

I'm Alive! So sorry for taking so long. Writer's block has been hitting me rather hard as of late. Let's all hope that I don't take as long next time or we'll all be retired by the time I get done.

Please excuse any hiccups or something in the story. I started and stopped a lot when I was writing this one.

Enjoy!

**

* * *

Chapter Three: Hatred**

_Three years had passed by. Benedicta still watched the boys fight nearly every day, though in a different spot. The year before the post she had grown accustomed to climbing upon broke, leading to jokes about weight for nearly a week until her father caught on. He asked for a fight but none would give it to him. They respected her father too much and none could readily take him on yet, but were getting close. The years had been kind to them and they had grown immensely, both in skill and height. Tristan would be the first, of that Benedicta was certain, but Arthur was not far behind._

_She was outside more often than not now, mostly out of fear that she would become like her mother. These years had had the opposite effect upon her. Renita often refused to leave the household, claiming the interior was far less bleak than the landscape, and she associated with no one except through correspondence, which did not come often enough for her sake. She was much thinner, older, weaker. Ramus wished to send her back to Rome to visit one day but he feared he may never see her again._

_The day was warmer than usual when the latest group arrived. It was smaller number than its predecessors, only totaling to six, but they were fresh Sarmatians for training nonetheless. The Romans needed more for their obligation to the older Knights was soon to pass. They would need fresh hands for battle if the Woads decided to take advantage as they had before._

_Benedicta watched from the entryway with her mother as her father entered the courtyard to greet the young Sarmatians for the first time. He was being civil at the moment, which was something that nearly made her giggle. However, he father soon rid himself of the façade, displaying all the power that an angered Roman General could possess. He worked the boys up, made them angry, nearly frightened, and drove them toward the practice arena. Benedicta moved to go with them but her mother held her wrist firmly._

"_Why must you go with them, Benedicta?" Renita asked, grasp tightening. She was surprisingly strong despite her frail condition. "Your father goes to bloody himself before his men and before his God. It is not your place to witness such a thing."_

_Benedicta shook loose of her mother's grasp and broke away before she could grab her again. "It is no more my place than my bed chambers in broad daylight." With that she took off, not caring how her mother looked as she ran after the boys. _

_The new arrivals were assembled inside the practice arena, getting some grand speech from her father. He looked every bit the commander here, was completely in his element. All prejudices fell away. He was training soldiers now, no one was special, no one was different. For now they were all nothing until he molded them into the fighting monsters they were meant to be. If one Roman boy stood amongst the group, he would hardly notice. This was how he always worked and is what led the Sarmatians to respect him so. Even the younger ones were showing the first signs, save for one. A curly, brown haired boy near the back wore one of the nastiest scowls she had ever seen and looked about ready to pounce on anyone that touched him._

_Keeping her eyes on him, Benedicta walked into the group of older boys that were watching from the sidelines. She sat on the rail next to Tristan, purposely leaning in close to him, catching another quick look at his tattoos before speaking._

"_That one looks worse off than you," she said with a smile, hoping for some kind of reaction. Tristan did not reply nor did he make any indication that he had even heard her. His eyes continued to scan the crowd of boys, observing every last detail. "Surely you would know why. You must know everything about them by now."_

_Tristan coughed, the first real sign of life she had seen from him when he was not fighting or eating. He then walked away, leaving the group like he usually did to enjoy his privacy, but there was another reason behind it that she could not pick out. _

_Turning, she saw Caius giving her a strange look, one of his rare disapproving ones if she was correct. _

"_What did I say?" she asked. _

_He, in turn, looked to Gawain. "Perhaps you are the better one to tell her. You are closer to the boy than I."_

_Gawain, who was leaning on the fence further down, playing with a knife while occasionally glancing at the group, nodded slowly, stepping forward. He gave Benedicta the most serious of looks, one that almost gave her a chill. _

"_When the Romans came to collect him, they wished to fulfill other things, more desire than order," Gawain paused, taking what appeared to be a much needed breath. Benedicta did not understand it all at first but slowly yet surely as she thought over it all, things began to fall into place, overheard, hushed conversations and drunken mumblings began to connect in new ways._

_He sighed, "What I am about to say to you, your father must never know nor your mother. Keep it to yourself, keep it safe."_

_Benedicta nodded, a little too quickly for Gawain's taste. She was eager for the information, to hold a secret from her parents. He could not blame her for such a reaction, after all she was only eleven. Gawain winced at the number. She was but a child and here he was prepared to mar it. He looked to the group of boys, knowing they were of her age and had experienced worse but would not telling her of these things make him no better than those who began it all?_

_She gave him a perplexed look, eyes still wide and hopeful. He could not go back now; he only hoped he would not come to regret it._

"_The Romans are gone for months away from their homes, their families and everything that is familiar to them, all to gather a group of youngsters that may very well be the sons of the devil himself. They are frustrated, vengeful…hungry." Benedicta's eyes widened but not out of any good feelings that arose within her. She almost wished to ask him to stop but something pulled her forward._

"_They ravage every woman in each village they come by, steal the pride of every being that lives within," he said bluntly, pointing to the boy. "That was the case of his village, only one Roman officer went too far and took the life of one."_

_Benedicta looked at him, every good feeling gone, replaced by a sadness and remorse toward a thing she had never known of._

"_It was his mother…my mother's younger sister."_

_Gawain left then with no more words or acknowledgement toward her._

. . .

Benedicta watched him sleep, thanking God for every miracle in the form of a new breath. They may have successfully gotten the arrowhead out, but he was most certainly not far from danger. He was still in a battle for his life despite what most of them would have only called a flesh wound. Any higher and this 'flesh wound' would have ended his life before they had the opportunity to save it. He was fortunate indeed, in at least one thing in life.

Dagonet hovered nearby, watching the Knight as well, eyes occasionally flicking toward where Lionel had once been. He had prepared the body as best as he could before letting the others take him away to give him proper burial rites. Benedicta looked at him now and saw how uncomfortable he was with the situation. A man who also hardly ever showed his emotions, Dagonet's behavior was beginning to concern Benedicta.

"You may go," Benedicta whispered, though she doubted even the strongest of storms could wake the Sarmatian before her. "I am certain that you would regret not attending his burial."

The healer tried to smile, though it did not work out as well as he would have liked. "I would regret more not being able to help my friend in his time of need."

"You must have greater faith in Gawain," she replied, looking over at him. "He is strong like the rest of you; he will not give up so easily," she paused, "and if he decides to cause worry, you shall be informed properly. If I recall correctly, I do remember my screams being compared to something that brought about broken glass."

This time the smile upon his face was genuine. "I should have learned the lesson from Arthur: never argue with a stubborn Roman and expect to win." He stayed a few moments longer, tending to some last things on Gawain, things Benedicta was certain were all in his head. As soon as he left, at a pace much faster than usual she could have sworn, Benedicta turned her attention back to the sleeping man. He actually managed to look peaceful, a trick that all the Knights had managed to pick up over the years. She wished she were so lucky.

How long had she been there? Two days? No, not even and yet what time had passed. She wondered how her face appeared now, no doubt worse than it had been when Arthur suggested someone look at it. Perhaps if Gawain woke while under her care, he would not recognize her and instead believe she was some foul demon. The thought put a smile on her face.

He coughed, putting Benedicta instantly on alert, ready for him to try and die any moment, but that would not happen. It was simply a cough, nothing more. She only hoped she would not react this way every time or it was going to be a long night, and what a long night it was turning out to be already.

Glancing out the window, Benedicta saw the horizon starting to brighten. So the night had ended. Gawain had made it to a new day and Lionel had seen his last. What a strange predicament they had all found themselves in, not truly certain if they should mourn or celebrate. If it was to be determined by location, she had better stop thinking of such dreadful thoughts. They were not going to help Gawain's wound heal.

The hours passed slowly. Most of the time her focus was kept on Gawain, eyes watching every fall and rise of his chest. Occasionally the calm of it all caused her to doze off, for no more than a few minutes at a time she surmised but every time she awoke with a fear that it had been for too long and every time he proved her wrong.

The sun had completely risen and Benedicta was about ready to fall asleep again, for perhaps longer this time, when footsteps echoed outside the doorway. She was instantly on alert, not wanting to get caught off guard by anyone. It was fortunate that she had caught them for it was Galahad that came stumbling through the door. Stumbling seemed too light a term for it, considering he nearly crashed into the wall on the other side of the room. It seemed he was incapable of stopping himself or even starting since he stood that way for quite some time.

She watched him cautiously, not exactly certain how he would react to her. They were practically alone, Gawain's unconscious form hardly counting more than the furniture for the time being. He had never been anything but cool to her, save for the occasional harsh word when he was tipsy, but clearly he was past that point. She wondered if he would become violent, after all each knight was known for starting a fight at some point and to Galahad, all the Romans were the same.

Hiding whatever fear there may have been buried inside, Benedicta stood, straight and tall. "Is there something you need, Galahad?"

The Knight looked up, a bit disoriented. He must not have realized anyone else was in the room. He looked angry when his eyes met hers but as they began to navigate back and forth between her and Gawain, they became livid.

"You're watching over Gawain?" He sounded disgusted by the very thought.

Benedicta crossed her arms, her own frustration beginning to boil underneath. "Dagonet was at the burial. Who else do you expect?"

"Averill," he replied, sounding like he was hoping for the man to magically show up.

"No one trusts the man, you included."

"At least he knows what he is doing!" Galahad shouted, louder than he may have meant but he hardly noticed. He came forward at a staggering jog, slamming into the table Gawain was on and using his two hands to keep upright. The man was a complete mess. She almost pitied him. After all, it was his cousin fighting for his life.

"No," Benedicta replied, her stare turning to ice, "You mean at least he is not me. At least some part of him is Briton."

"Yes…yes I do," He was hanging his head now, as though about ready to get sick. His head swung back upward however and he seemed filled with a new purpose. Galahad strode toward Benedicta, placing himself between her and Gawain, dangerously close. The smell of alcohol off his breath was enough to choke her but she stood still, even though her heart was pounding. "I trust no Roman with him."

"You seem to trust Arthur well enough."

"Arthur is not all Roman."

"And yet, where do his allegiances lie? When the time comes to leave, where does he travel to?" It was a low blow, one that she hoped would not have repercussions on Arthur, but at the time being, it was the only thing she could think of.

"Do not try to make him like you!" Galahad shouted, slamming his fist down on a small table next to her. He had slowly gotten closer, his demeanor more threatening. "He is better than you."

While Benedicta did believe that Arthur was better than her, the way Galahad said it was not the one. It only angered her more. "But it is not Arthur who watches your cousin. It is me. Dagonet trust me, as should you."

Galahad snickered, cocking his head to the side. "And if he dies?"

Benedicta's eyes narrowed. "Then you may wring my neck as you've always wished." The two stared at each other for a long while. She did not have to see his hand to know that it was twitching, tempted by the offer she placed before him despite the fact Gawain was still alive.

"Galahad," a voice near the door called, threatening. Both turned to see Tristan leaning against the wall, the same placid look etched on his face, never giving away anything. If he was drunk, no one would ever be able to tell but Benedicta was fairly certain he had hardly touched the stuff that night. There were other things on his mind.

The young Knight backed away from Benedicta and she felt herself taking in a breath for the first time in a while. She had never realized how close he had actually gotten until he pulled away, leaving so much space between the two. He turned away from her, never to look again, and walked out of the room, pausing only a moment in front of Tristan.

Benedicta watched the two stare each other down. There was a lot a stare from Tristan could convey and she was certain that Galahad was receiving the full force of it. When he had left, Tristan remained. He gave a short nod to Benedicta but nothing else. He did not seem in the mood to talk, not that he was ever the talkative type.

She sat down again, waiting for Tristan to leave but he did not move for quite some time. She did not know why. Maybe he was waiting to see if Galahad would return but she doubted that. Perhaps he was waiting for Gawain to wake up but she had never known Tristan to be the type to sit around all day for someone. It either happened or did not and whether or not he was there hardly mattered. Perhaps he was simply hiding. After all, Lionel had been the closest to him and maybe the other Knights were leaning in too hard on the man. She opted for that one and continued to sit in silence.

Tristan finally stirred some time later. "It is good to have you back," he said simply, walking out the door. "I'll see that you get food."

With that, he was gone and Benedicta's jaw was on the floor. There would be no understanding that man. It was idiotic that she had thought so in the first place.

. . .

Gawain was lost in some dark place, caught between this world and the next. There were voices that called out from the black abyss, some he knew, some he did not. He wished to follow them, but was not entirely certain of where they would lead, so he stayed still, drifting back and forth between two forces, both fighting over him yet neither wanting him.

He quickly became used to the sensations of this place and quickly became sick of them. Why could one world not end up victorious? He did not care which one, either was better than being stuck in that pit of nothingness. The voices had faded and when one broke through, it echoed in all directions, leaving him more lost and confused than before.

Something burned in his side, searing and painful. He reached for the pain, attempted to remedy it but something pulled his arm back. He tried again but the grip grew stronger. Gawain began to fight the forces that inflicted this upon him. They might win but he was not going to go quietly. The voices returned all around him but there were so many, he could not make out what was being said. He continued to fight harder, though he felt his strength leaving him.

_You are no longer in battle, Gawain._

The voice resounded in the deep clearer than any other had before. It stopped him where he was; it was like no other: a woman's, calm and soothing, familiar and yet strange to him. He wished to hear it again. This voice would lead him out.

_You are with friends._

He wished to disagree with it. The hands that clawed at him were hardly friendly. Was she some kind of trick as well?

_Be still or we cannot help you._

She asked a lot of him, this voice. He could not simply give up. That was not how he lived. If he were to die, every breath leading up to it would be used to fight. Taking a few more with him would certainly ease the passing. Then a thought occurred to him. Was he not dead already? He remembered the ambush, the Woads swarming about them like flies, an unending stream. He fought hard and tirelessly until something pierced his side. He fell, as did Lionel defending him before all turned to black and he ended up…here. It all made sense then. He would obey.

The hands calmed down as he did and the pain became slower, more tolerable. The voice continued to speak with him and he used it to find the way out.

Light was painful, perhaps more so than the injury on his side. His eyes had barely opened before he shut them again, returning his world to dark. Remaining there made him uncomfortable, however. He thought the blackness would take him back, put him somewhere else so he forced his eyes open once more.

The world around him was a blur, the shapes irregular in form and unrecognizable. His eyes moved back and forth, slightly pained from the effort. There was a figure to the left. He could not make out who they were but they appeared to be asleep. For some reason, he reached out to them but it was a bad idea. Gawain groaned from the pain that shot up and down his entire left side, leaving the actual wound numb from the experience. His sight became dizzy and he closed his eyes again.

He could hear the figure in the chair startle and felt them look in his direction. The chair creaked as they got up and moved over. He could feel the presence right over him. He decided to chance it and open his eyes again. The world was still a blur as it had been before but he could make out the faint features of the being above him, or the multiple beings. They seemed to circle him but it quickly occurred to Gawain that they were one and the same. A woman, no doubt the owner of the voice that guided him from the dark.

She smiled. It was tired but reassuring nonetheless. "You have awakened. How childish of me to ever doubt the strength of a Knight." Yes, it was the voice from his dreams, so much clearer now.

"It was you," he whispered, watching the confusion grow on her face. "You led me from the dark."

Her features smoothed out. "Gawain-"

"You saved me," he continued, "I am indebted to you."

Now she smiled again, leaning in closer. His eyes began to focus, taking in all her beauty. She seemed perfection save for a cut near her eye, one that was swollen and bruised. He wished then to kill whoever did that to her, no matter whose blood ran through their veins. "You would not be saying that if you recognized me."

This confused Gawain, and concerned him. Surely he would have remembered if she was something less than favorable from his past, though he hardly thought that any woman would. He was not Lancelot, but even with this reassurance, he found himself doubting and looking closer. This woman did indeed look familiar to him, their identity hidden at the edge of his memory, one rocked with pain as he tried to concentrate.

She seemed to notice his struggle, her smile dipping slightly. "Four years must be longer than I realized," she said, leaning back. "And I thought it had felt like eternity." He watched a pain pass through her eyes, a pain of loss and loneliness. Every Knight knew this look.

Suddenly the pain was gone and his memory flared to life, bringing back images and moments he had long forgotten for thinking upon them would not have made life any easier. The small girl that arrived when they did, but she in a carriage while they rode horseback. They lived hard lives while hers sat comfortably in the lap of luxury. She treated as a ruler while they as scum and yet they had found middle ground. The Roman and the Sarmatians, closer than any would have expected.

"Benedicta?" She smiled at his recognition of her and he returned the gesture, happier now than before.


End file.
